


Strapping Praetorians

by Fitzrove



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: "i went to prison" morse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s05e06 Icarus, Gen, Not connected to my other fics, RICH and disgusting, Sexual Harassment, Teacher Morse, e stands for "extreme thug life", this is a study on disgusting teen boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 12:06:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18620290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fitzrove/pseuds/Fitzrove
Summary: In Icarus, what if Morse was the one who was cornered by the boys in the woods, rather than Trewlove?This is definitely more awkward than angsty. Contains mild spoilers for Icarus, since it's based on a particular scene.





	Strapping Praetorians

An English teacher walking around school grounds in the middle of the day probably wasn’t the most inconspicuous thing to do, but Morse still did his best to seem as unnoticeable as possible. He was taking a refreshing walk in the crisp autumn air, alright, not snooping around for clues or doing anything suspicious at all. He’d already had one close call with the school secretary walking in on him talking on the phone, and he didn’t need any more of those.

The boys were getting too much for him. Not too much to handle, of course - he _could_ handle them, he was sure of it - but somehow, seeing how cruel they were to one another made him lose his faith in humanity a bit. It seemed like nothing had changed from the time he’d been a schoolboy himself, and with the way some of the other teachers acted, he was starting to doubt anything ever would. If anything, teenagers were getting _more_ out of hand as the years went by. It meant that people like him, the queer and quiet type, would have an even harder time simply _surviving_ through their lives.  
So Morse hadn’t wanted to stay there. He’d insisted on having a look around the grounds himself, even though Trewlove had initially protested. _I can take care of myself_ , she’d said. _I’m a copper too._

Morse _did_ very much understand the feeling of not wanting to be left behind to mind the house while others got to do the police work. If anyone at the station had it tougher than him, it was Trewlove, who would’ve made a brilliant detective if not for the fact that she was a woman, and technically, women couldn’t outright join the CID. She was young and determined, and Morse didn’t want her to get hurt, since it was very likely that there was still a killer loose on school grounds. She was going to transfer to the Yard, to go on to do great things, to look for murderers from Ealing to Stratford to Bayswater, to catch dangerous criminals and to help people who couldn’t help themselves.

Morse couldn’t see such a future for himself. Cowley was closing, and he wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do, but his future didn’t seem very clear or bright. He could afford more risks, and he was determined to take them.

So he’d told her that he was her superior, and that she should talk to Mrs Ivory some more. See if they’d missed anything she might know about her husband’s last days and weeks. Trewlove had pressed her lips together in a tight line, but nodded anyway.

Morse opened the gate to the graveyard pass - it creaked, probably worn from the rain and the cold - and stepped through it, minding his feet as he did so. There was something sinister about the woods, especially since they’d found a _body_ in there, and he couldn’t be too careful about things.  
The wood was chapped under his hand, and Morse struggled with the latch for a moment before managing to get it closed. When he lifted his head, he realised he wasn’t alone.

“Tally-ho”, a voice said. “If it isn’t Mr Morse. Sir.”

Three figures were approaching, their swagger unmistakably familiar to Morse by now, even though he wished it hadn’t been. That was the gait of someone who had no respect for anyone or anything he thought of as lesser, and these bloody boys thought so of everyone. That’s what happened when people with more money than brains were allowed to raise children, especially boys and those children were all put into one place with too few rules which were observed too leniently. For God’s sake, Morse had _never_ understood the point of _Lord of the Flies_ better than when he’d first set foot in a classroom. It was hell.

“Clenchfist. Rackway. Queach”, Morse said. “You should be in form.”  
“I don’t think so, sir”, the blond one - Queach - said, sticking his hands in his pockets. Morse fought the urge to step back as they approached him. He refused to be intimidated by three brats who were senseless enough to skip school.  
“I do, so you’d better be on your way”, Morse said. “Go on. The woods are off-limits to students.”  
“No, sir”, Clenchfist - the tallest out of them - said. Morse drew in a long breath, trying not to start screaming at them. It wasn’t going to help. He needed to persuade them out of the way as swiftly and inconspicuously as possible, because God knew he didn’t have time for observing a goddamn childish _detention_ when there was a murderer on the loose.

“Clearly, you haven’t been here long enough to learn the rules, sir”, Queach said.  
“The praetorian code, sir”, Rackway piped in. He was standing a bit further back than the others, more looking than participating, but Morse didn’t like the look he had in his eyes.  
“You must’ve been very curious about it to wander out here, sir”, Clenchfist said. He’d made his way rather close to Morse, just a couple of feet away, and Morse had no bloody idea why. A lanky teenage boy was hardly an intimidating sight, even if Morse wasn’t the most bulky, towering man in the world himself, and Clenchfist wasn’t carrying a weapon - Morse was good enough at his job to have noticed that.

“What I’m doing here is none of your business”, Morse snapped. Alright, bloody alright - he’d just have to admit his defeat and stop even trying to persuade the boys to leave him alone. He could settle with bringing them to the school and giving them suspension till the end of term, or something like that, and return to the woods when they were properly out of the way. The buildings at Coldwater were very old, and Morse had no doubt work would be found for them promptly. A half-term spent as a caretaker’s aide instead of a posh, rich student would teach them some manners.

“No, we do know”, Queach said. “We know what your kind are after. Sir.”

That stopped Morse for a minute. _His kind?_ He didn’t like what that sounded like. He desperately didn’t want it to be true. He’d _known_ that rumours got around schools lightning-fast, that the tiniest slip could endanger the whole operation, but him and Trewlove had been careful from the start. Nothing to indicate they had any ties to any coppers, or had any curiously specific knowledge about police business in general.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be.

“The real question is”, Clenchfist said, getting awfully close to the edge of Morse’s personal space, “if you fell out of that tree, sir. Since your lips and cheeks are apple-red, sir.”

Morse winced at that, taking a step back. It felt like a soundless shriek was forming in his chest, not wanting to come out, but making him freeze up and burn like a bloody pyre and wish for the ground to swallow him whole. Rackway let out a snort.

“Come on, mate”, Rackway said. “That was weak. Even Mr Morse deserves better than that.”  
“Do it yourself, if you’re so bloody smart”, Clenchfist muttered. “I’m waiting. Either of you.”  
“Sir”, Queach said, looking straight at Morse, staring at him, eyes unnervingly unmoving. “Maybe you should teach us a bit. Make us listen to you real good.”

Morse needed a moment to gather what remained of his thoughts. During that time, both Queach and Rackway had made their way closer, and he realised he was surrounded. It wasn’t good. It definitely wasn’t good. And now that the boys were closer, Morse realised why they were acting like they were. Dear Lord.

“You’re stoned”, Morse said. “You have three seconds to back down and get back to class, and I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

None of the boys moved, and it made Morse tense up. It was almost _too_ quiet in the woods, and he didn’t want to make a run for it - he needed his dignity intact to teach, and if he let himself be bothered by petty games like these, his whole class would know in a matter of hours. And Morse needed to hold on to any sliver of respect he could possibly get out of the boys.

The silence broke when Queach laughed, an ugly snigger.

“No, sir”, he said. “We’ve got other plans, sir.”  
“They don’t matter, though”, Morse said. “What matters is that you do what you’ve told.”

The boys just stood there. Rackway was _grinning_ , Clenchfist looking down at his feet, Queach staring at him with a hint of a smile on his angled face. Absolutely no intention of doing what was in their own best interests. Very well, then. Morse let out a disappointed huff.

“Alright”, Morse said, raising his voice. “You’ve had your chance to talk your way out of this. We’re going to go have a talk with the headmaster.”

He turned to leave, but was stopped by a wide hand on his shoulder. Shaking ever-so-slightly, but the grip was still tight, and Morse’s head snapped back so he could bark at the boy to keep his bloody hands off him. He tried to slap the hand away, but someone clumsily grabbed his wrist and twisted it behind his back before he could do so. Bloody Rackway had sneaked up on him. He didn’t want to _hurt_ the boys - would end up getting in serious trouble, and quite possibly revealing himself as a police officer - but he needed to _get away_. He managed to kick at the person standing in front of him. It didn’t quite land, but the boy still let out an offended shout at that.  
It was Clenchfist, standing there and looking at him with intent, and Morse braced himself to dodge a punch that never came. Instead, he was pushed back by his chest against yet another person - Queach? - who grabbed his shoulder, helping Rackway hold him still. Bloody hell. He twisted against their hands, but three against one was hardly a fair fight.

Clenchfist stepped closer.

“Pretty boys shouldn't wander off alone, sir”, Clenchfist said. “You have to bring a praetorian along. It's a rule, sir. But it's too late for you now.”  
He grabbed Morse's hair, hands horribly clammy, and kissed him.

Clenchfist kissed him. Not just a light peck, but straight on his lips, with his mates holding Morse in place. Morse kept his eyes wide open, trying to kick him away, but Clenchfist just took the opportunity to press his hips against Morse's.

Jesus Christ. All Morse could think about was how horrible it must've been for the smaller boys at the school, the ones who were more focused on growing up and getting smarter than trying to climb up an imagined hierarchy by picking on those who didn't have hordes of minions to defend themselves with. He'd seen some of the bullying before, but he’d had no idea that it would manifest in so many forms. God, he loathed it.

Clenchfist pulled away from him with a wet pop, his face red. Morse stared at him, most likely even redder, but the colour in _his_ face wasn't from any youthful embarrassment. Oh, no. It was fury, pure and simple.

“Christ almighty”, Clenchfist said.  
“Very good, sir”, Queach whispered into his ear. Morse realised his hands were creeping downwards, from his shoulders to his back, and he _really_ didn't like where it was going.  
“Bet you've never had three at once before, sir”, Rackway said.  
He was pressing his hips against Morse, and Morse felt his stomach drop. Lord, no.

Rackway was getting hard. Morse didn't particularly believe in any gods or saints, but at that moment, he was desperately praying for Jesus and Allah and Virgin Mary to _save him from that situation_. It was beyond awkward to try to struggle now, since that would've meant bloody grinding against Rackway and Queach. Bloody fucking hell.

“You're no ordinary teacher, are you, Mr Morse, sir. I don't think we've ever had anyone who'd be such a pretty, skinny little fa-”

“You're right”, Morse said. His voice was so quiet that Clenchfist seemed taken aback, his brows furrowing. It certainly didn't make him look like any less of an idiot.  
“I'm not. Do you know how?” Morse asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the boys one by one, hoping the iciness on his face was enough to make them uncomfortable to the core. It seemed to be working. He could feel Rackway and Queach's grip loosening, and Clenchfist took a tiny step back, confused.  
“I've been jailed for murder before, and I'll gladly serve the same bloody time again if you don’t let go of me and piss off this instant.”

The words were more cutting than anything he’d said to any of the boys before, even though they’d been driving him insane from the moment he’d first had the displeasure of teaching them. Clenchfist stared at him, totally dumbfounded.

“... what?” Clenchfist asked, suddenly looking even more shifty and uneasy than he had before. Maybe the boy still had some brains left, hadn’t completely and irreparably smoked them out. All the better for him.  
“Wait, sir”, Queach said. “Really, sir?”  
“Euh… sir”, Rackway said, more to say _something_ to fill in the calm silence - calm for _Morse_ , but undoubtedly quite terrifying for the boys - than to actually provide any valuable input. He had a tendency of doing that in class, as well. Morse had noticed by now.

“The next one of you to touch me like that will get my fist in his face”, Morse said. “Straight on the nose, shattering the orbital ridge and breaking it into your frontal lobe. You’ll be dead before you hit the ground. The medical field backs me up on this. I know a bloke.”

All that talk about corpses was making him nauseous, even though he was the one delivering it, but it had the desired effect on the boys, too. Thank God for DeBryn. Clenchfist’s eyes had widened, and he was ever-so-slowly backing away from Morse. Rackway’s hands were shaking, and he seemed like he could barely hold himself together, so holding Morse in place was getting more difficult to him every second.

“Jesus Christ”, Clenchfist muttered. His face was a bright red, and he had trouble standing straight, probably more embarrassed than he’d been in a long while. “Jesus.”

“Sir”, Rackway said, stepping back and letting go of Morse as if touching him made his hands burn. Perhaps it did, now. _Good_. Queach followed him, not brave enough to keep up the game by himself. Once Morse’s hands were free, he really had to focus in order to resist the urge to push Clenchfist to the ground, just to scare him a bit. He managed, instead just gritting his teeth and pulling on his sleeves to get them straightened out.  
“We’re really sorry, sir”, Queach blurted out. “Please don’t -”

“You bloody well should be”, Morse said. “For yourselves as much as everything else.”

Morse didn’t have time to think of any further scolding, before he heard footsteps coming.

“On your way, Clenchfist”, a voice said. It was Bodnar, with his red hair and beard, approaching them with the confidence of someone who knew both the school grounds and the students very well, and knew how to handle them. He even had their respect, Morse thought, as even some of the more insufferable boys seemed to sometimes leave Bodnar alone. At least more often than they left Morse.  
“You too, Rackway. Queach”, Bodnar said. The boys exchanged quick glances between themselves before scattering off in hurried steps. Morse was left standing there, not knowing how to explain the situation that had just transpired, or whether he really _should_ try to explain it at all. For a detective, his brain sure was working slow today.

But luckily, excuses weren’t needed, at least not now. The look on Bodnar’s face was a bit curious, but Morse couldn’t really make out what he was thinking. He didn’t even know what the man was doing there - he should probably jot that down, for further inquiry. That could wait a minute, though. Even though he didn’t want to think of it too much, he still felt a bit shaken up. Good grief. _He didn’t like drugs_. Neither doing them himself nor other people under their influence.

“You alright, Morse?” Bodnar asked.  
“Yes”, Morse said. “The boys, they just… they can be a handful.”  
“Indeed. I’ll walk you back to the school, if it’s alright”, Bodnar said.

Morse nodded, too tired to protest. His investigation in the woods could wait until a later time. Right now he needed to get to the house and blast a record on full volume for at least twenty minutes. It was the least he could do to calm his nerves. (Come to think of it, he should probably also pour himself some scotch while he was at it. Just a bit wouldn’t hurt, despite the fact that it was the middle of the day.)

Even if Bodnar was confused, he didn’t show it, not during the whole walk back to the school. Morse was grateful for it, even thanking him when they were there, before waving him goodbye to make his way back to the house. He had to call Thursday before his next class started, and if possible, tell Trewlove to watch out for herself. Bloody hell.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a typo.
> 
> No, for real. I was meant to write something to the effect of “why are those teen boys hitting on mrs morse” in a message to my friend while I was watching Icarus, but it came out as “why are those teen boys hitting on MR morse”. This monstrosity is the result.
> 
> You’re welcome??? XD It was weirdly liberating to write Morse go off in the end, and I hope I didn't ruin anyone's good night's sleep.
> 
> Please do put your thoughts in the comments! Somehow Icarus ended up being a very inspiring episode for me fanfic-wise (since I don't want to acknowledge its ending or start s6 lmaooo I don't like the moustache).


End file.
